


In Careless Wonder All

by Pennytextrix



Category: Bramwell (TV), Holby City
Genre: Angst, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, or Holby City x Bramwell Crossover, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9205172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennytextrix/pseuds/Pennytextrix
Summary: An alternative to season 4 of Bramwell. London’s East End 1899. Serena Campbell is an accomplished senior doctor and research fellow at The Royal Free Hospital. But when Dr Eleanor Bramwell contacts her regarding an intriguing and mysterious case at The Thrift, dark secrets are revealed that threaten to destroy everything.





	

Serena Campbell threw open the door of her lab and slammed it back so hard that it rattled in its frame.

_Well...they probably heard that all the way back to the board room._

_Good._ She wants them to know how utterly furious she is, even if she can’t show them. Even if she can’t scream and rage at all those stuffy, ancient, incompetent, ineffectual…bloody ridiculous…absurd…threatened…ridiculous…men. To do so would not help her cause, not one jot. That would be exactly what they’d expect of an hysterical, overly emotional, eccentric, lady doctor.  God! She wants to scream! She wants to throw something. She goes as far as to pick up a glass beaker off the nearest bench, draws her arm back, and for a split second she is quite ready to launch it at the wall before she regains a modicum of self-control. It won’t do her any favours to break expensive hospital equipment either. Especially with her research funds cut in half and under threat of being withdrawn entirely.

She sinks to her knees, pathetically cradling the glass beaker in her lap. Frustrated tears stream down her face as she covers her mouth with her other hand in an attempt to stop a gut wrenching sob from escaping.

She wants to break it all. Tear it all down: herself, her lab, the board, the entire bloody Royal Free Hospital. But she won’t. Because she knows deep down that this is her, this is everything, this place, and her work: it’s under her skin, and in her blood, and written on her very bones, and there isn’t a damned thing she can do about any of it.

 _Everything is fine. I just need to breath._ She struggles to undo the collar of her blouse and untuck it, her scrambling, desperate fingers pull at the stays of her corset, _if I can just make it a little looser, If I could just breathe a little more deeply. Right. That’s better. Now, deep breath in for four seconds, out for four seconds, and again. And again. Right. Good._

“Right. Enough. Come on Campbell, get it together.”

Swiping at the angry tears that continue to fall, Serena puts the glass beaker down on the floor in front of her and glares at it expectantly as if it’s deliberately withholding the answer from her.

If she was being entirely honest with herself, she had known that this was coming sooner or later. She had just convinced herself it would be later. There were simply not enough hours in the day. Since her rather abrupt return from India and her illness; a bone weary exhaustion had consumed her. She was slower than she used to be. She needed more rest than she ever had before. She had been distracted. She had known, in her heart, this could not go on forever. Still, she hadn’t dared let herself stop, not for a second. She had returned to work as soon as she could stand, taking on a full teaching schedule on top of being a consultant general surgeon in charge of two wards. Her research activities had suffered and then stalled entirely. She was struggling to cope. She needed help, she knew that.  

The board wanted to hire a new consultant.

An equal, they had said _._ Someone to split the workload with, someone to assist her in and help refocus her research into the medical applications of experimental materials.

_Someone to spy on me more like._

_Someone to report back to the board on the activities of Crazy Campbell, someone who could be moulded and manipulated to the board’s whims, someone to replace her when she lost her mind entirely._

Still, she had to admit; it wasn’t a terrible idea, not in principle.

They had, at least, agreed that she would have a say in the appointment. She would fight, to the death, any attempt to install the son, nephew, godson or Oxford chum of a prominent patron. No. They would have to be excellent. In and of themselves. _They’ll be good enough to have made it on their own. They will know the value of hard work, persistence and sheer bloody mindedness_. Serena decided, mentally making a list of her own personal criteria. She would tolerate nothing but the best, with the most impressive of references and a record of independent research publications.

“Well then, there you are, all you need to do is make sure you get the right man for the job.”

It was only then that Serena realised she was sitting on the floor of her lab, in a state of dishabille, talking to a glass beaker. She rolled her eyes at herself, stood and began to right her clothing as best she could without a maid to hand. She picked up the beaker and placed it precariously on her desk. The only available space atop the pile of yesterday’s correspondence, which she had yet to find the time or the inclination to work her way through. As she went about the awkward business of doing up her collar and reattaching her brooch, her gaze caught and lingered on the precise, looped script of one Dr Eleanor Bramwell, magnified by the bottom of the beaker.

Serena snatched the letter off the pile. They had corresponded for some weeks during the spring and early summer, regarding the curious case of a twelve-year-old umbrella maker with relapsing remitting rheumatic fever. It seemed the girl had once more been admitted to the thrift in a state of crisis; a raging fever, butterfly rash, swollen and tender joints, sensitivity to light and severe fatigue. Dr Bramwell was at a loss as to what to do apart from nursing the fever. The girl had first presented ten months ago with a case of suspected meningitis, but when the fever did not progress, and the child showed no signs of developing septicaemia and – quite remarkably – lived, recovering slowly but with lingering weakness, pain and swelling in the knees and hands, Dr Bramwell had diagnosed rheumatic fever. A perfectly reasonable diagnosis, given the girl’s initial presentation and all available information gathered at the time.

_Ah so close, Ms Bramwell, but not quite._

When the girl had been carried into The Thrift by her frantic father, less than two months later with exactly the same symptoms, Dr Bramwell had begun to suspect her initial diagnosis was wrong. It was not unheard of for rheumatic fever to reoccur, but it was unusual for it to reappear in such a short space of time and with such a violent and extreme presentation.  It was then that Dr Bramwell had contacted Serena for a second opinion. Given The Royal Free’s specialism in rheumatic diseases she had been the obvious choice. Serena had seen a number of these peculiar cases. Inexplicably, they seemed to occur mostly in girls and young women. This observation had led to a lengthy and spirited correspondence between the two doctors on the possibility of gynaecological, environmental and occupational factors that may have caused these young women to fall ill. Serena had dug out her notes on the cases she could remember. She had been disappointed to find that her registrar had failed to record the occupations of more than a few of these patients. However, she noted that there had indeed been another umbrella maker and a boot and glove maker among her patients.

This had led both of them on a wild goose chase half way across London and up and down the East India Dock Road in which Serena had learned more than she ever wanted or needed to know about the manufacture of umbrellas, boots and gloves.  As it turned out – apart from an obnoxious smelling but quite harmless gum used as a sealant in the manufacture of all three – these trades remained largely cottage industries, remarkably free of the toxins and poisons so often used in the industrial processes a factory worker might be exposed to every day of their, often brutally short, lives. No, that wasn’t it. These women were skilled craftspeople not factory workers, they had been hale and hearty, comfortable and reasonably well fed in the months leading up to their illnesses.

A bittersweet smile graced the corner of Serena’s mouth as she recalled how vehemently Dr Bramwell had disagreed with her assessment. She was utterly convinced that they had missed something important. It had taken Serena’s breath away; that magnificent fierceness, the beauty of her passion and defiance. The way Dr Bramwell had refused to back down, the way she had thought nothing of invading her personal space, grasping for her arm, very nearly causing a scene outside Vaughan’s Shoemakers on St. Leonards Road.  

And then, yes, the bit that she tried very hard not to think about – the attraction – and worse, the thing Serena lived in perpetual terror of witnessing. Although, she could have been mistaken, hoped beyond hope that she had been, she was almost certain she had seen the flicker of…something in Dr Bramwell’s eyes. Then there was the spark of shocked recognition that seemed to arc between them where they had touched. No, unfortunately, Serena was quite certain that she lacked the whimsy of imagination necessary to have conjured _that_ up out thin air. My God! Heavens only knew what she had said or done to reveal herself so plainly, but there really could be no mistaking what had precipitated Dr Bramwell’s sudden gasp. The way she had flinched and withdrawn her hand as if she’d been burned! It pained Serena to think of it.

It broke her heart anew each time the memory of that day floated unbidden to the surface. She could barely breathe when she thought about the confusion and fear that had been evident in the deep, lingering, and then the utterly final downward cast look of those extraordinary eyes, the awkward clearing of her throat and the dismissive brush of her fingers through errant strands of chestnut hair.

Serena could not help but run her fingers over the letter as she remembered that day, and the near desperation there had been in the voice of the woman who wrote it. She had practically begged Serena to stop and listen when all she had wanted to do was run:

“Please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I go too far. I know. It’s just…so frustrating! I know! I just _know_ there is something we’re missing.”

Even in a moment of personal shock and discomfort Dr Bramwell did not give up. Could not forget her patient, nor withdraw from the unholy practice of medicine, not for a second.

_Perhaps what I really need, is the right woman for the job._

She was perfect.

She _would be_ perfect.

If it were not for the memory of that fleeting and yet terrifyingly present moment: the petrifying realisation that Eleanor Bramwell had, with a singular look and touch of her hand, broken through Serena Campbell’s carefully constructed defences and had known exactly what she was.

Well, there had been very little that could be said or done after that. There was nowhere to go, professionally or personally. The case was at a dead end and as for…well, there were no words in any language she knew, to explain that. So she had taken a deep breath and replied: “I’m sorry…Dr. Bramwell. There’s nothing more to be done.”

Serena is still unsure as to what, exactly, she had been apologising for. She had simply felt that one was owed, and that she must. They had politely said their goodbyes and offered each other the professional courtesy of promising to contact each other should there be further developments in the case.

She had not expected to ever hear from her again.

She had decided that it really was for the best.

All things considered.

Life went on, as it had the annoying habit of doing. Serena worked hard. Carried on, and did her best not to think about the whole sorry mess.

Then, two weeks ago, she had come across an article. She hadn’t even been looking for it. She’d been searching the medical library for hours trying to find an old study she’d once read as a medical student, theorising the use of a carbon steel plate and screw system that could stabilise and even replace diseased joints. She still hadn’t found the blasted thing!

What she had found was Sir Alfred Garrod’s _Treatise on nature and treatment of gout and rheumatic gout_ (London: Walton and Maberly, 1859) a differential diagnosis describing a rheumatic disorder he had termed ‘Rheumatoid Arthritis’ and with it a case study so striking in its similarity to her own observations: he could have been writing about Dr Bramwell’s little umbrella girl. Treatment options for the girl appeared limited, expensive and experimental at best. But there had been some success with solutions of quinine.

She really should have written.

It was, in point of fact, deeply unethical and morally reprehensible of her to have withheld information from Dr Bramwell which could have helped a sick child and all because of some absurd...personal…whatever it was. The truth was that she had been trying very hard not to think of her. Most of the time she had succeeded and she hated that this chance discovery had dredged it all to the surface again. Forcing her to think about how and why, in her quietist of moments: in her lonely bed, in the dark recesses and unearthly silence of early December mornings, she still came to her unbidden, and almost unwanted.

She thought of no one else.

She was disgusted with herself.

She couldn’t bear to remember the look of thinly veiled distaste that had marred Eleanor’s beautiful face. And the prospect of writing to her…of possibly seeing her again…she hadn’t been able to…couldn’t begin to countenance it.

She really had been a terrible coward.

Now it seemed fate had intervened. The girl - Elizabeth…Elizabeth Vaughan was her name - had returned to The Thrift once more and was, in Dr Bramwell’s estimation in a terrible state: left weak, malnourished and dehydrated by intermittent bouts of fever. The girl’s father had limited funds, but Dr Bramwell hoped that Serena might attend her, if not for the girl’s sake, or out of professional curiosity, &c… &c… then as a personal favour in fond remembrance of a faithfully held friendship.

She had signed the missive ‘Yours, Eleanor Bramwell.’

Serena folded and unfolded the letter in her hands as she paced the room. She couldn’t help but feel she was being manipulated ever so slightly. But still, she could forgive Eleanor for that. She had, in the past, played on known affections, flirted and made use of personal relationships and connections to get what she needed for a patient. She would undoubtedly do it again, in a heartbeat, should the situation present itself. It was, however, completely unnecessary, and, she thought, somewhat cruel of Eleanor to emphasise the intensity of their almost friendship.

Strangely, she could admit to thinking of her as Eleanor now. In the privacy of her own thoughts she had always been Eleanor, even if she would never dream of addressing her in such familiar terms. For she had never earned that privilege.

Of course she would see the child.

But first she needed to make use of her pharmacy privileges _._ The Royal Free had a sizable charitable fund. Serena was sure it would run to a course of quinine injections for a worthy girl like Elizabeth Vaughan. And perhaps, if Eleanor could forgive her, then Serena could be brave enough to bury her feelings, swallow her pride and set aside her very personal humiliation for the sake of the work. If they could both silently agree to ignore it…to…forget…well, then, the hospital might have a new consultant by tea time.

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews and kudos greatly appreciated. Just someone...please tell me is this completely mad or should I continue?


End file.
